


if your sky is falling, just take my hand and hold it

by enby-crowley (probablypadders)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, M/M, Missing Scene, touch-starved aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probablypadders/pseuds/enby-crowley
Summary: They don’t say a word on the bus back to London.Crowley is slouched against the window and Aziraphale leans heavily into the unyielding plastic seat, eyes closed as he tries to shove down the anxiety that chased the remaining adrenaline out of his system. Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy is practically seared into his eyelids for how many times he’s read it but he’s still not sure what itmeans.





	if your sky is falling, just take my hand and hold it

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as an exploration of Aziraphale being touch-starved and my feelings got away from me, whoops. Title is from "I Won't Let You Go" by James Morrison.
> 
> Dedicated to my MAMDAM fam as always; your encouragement means the world and I love you all dearly ♥

They don’t say a word on the bus back to London.

Crowley is slouched against the window and Aziraphale leans heavily into the unyielding plastic seat, eyes closed as he tries to shove down the anxiety that chased the remaining adrenaline out of his system. Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy is practically seared into his eyelids for how many times he’s read it but he’s still not sure what it  _ means. _

A warm hand on his knee jolts him back to the present and he opens his eyes; Crowley is still turned to the window but he can feel those golden eyes watching his reaction carefully. Heart in his throat, he rests his own hand atop Crowley’s and lets their fingers link loosely. Crowley’s skin is cool to the touch but it sends warm tingles up Aziraphale’s arm, his heart fumbling for a beat or two when Crowley turns his hand over so their palms brush.

They both stay quiet but Aziraphale swallows around the lump suddenly closing his throat, Crowley’s hand a life raft in his vice-like grip as he looks away, out of the window across from them. Crowley holds on just as tightly, thumb sweeping softly across his knuckles.

***

Crowley makes no move to take his hand back when they arrive down the street from his flat, simply leading Aziraphale off the bus and allowing himself a soft, private smile when the warmth of a miracle brushes past him to leave a wad of notes in the driver’s wallet. He half expects Aziraphale to pull back into his own little personal bubble but their eyes meet and the angel manages a wan smile that makes Crowley’s chest ache. Neither of them let go.

He leads Aziraphale briskly down the street and into the relative safety of the block he called home— he’ll need to refresh the wards on the place soon but for now it will have to do. They’re both exhausted, the last few days weighing heavily, and right now all Crowley wants to do is make sure his angel is okay and collapse into bed for a day or two.

“Watch out— didn’t get chance to clean up.” he murmurs as he unlocks the door, stepping gingerly over the puddle that used to be Ligur. His voice is a little rough and he clears his throat, swallows. Aziraphale has moved into the middle of the room but he looks lost, fingers his laced in front of him as he takes in his sparse surroundings.

“Can I get you anything, angel? Cup of tea? Booze? Bite to eat?”

Aziraphale tries to speak but no sound escapes. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Tea, please. Nothing stronger for me tonight I’m afraid, I need to think.”

Crowley frowns but obliges, puttering about the kitchen to make their drinks; a splash of milk and two sugars in Aziraphale’s tea, green tea with honey for himself. He hands over an angel-wing mug, a twin of the one he’d gifted Aziraphale years ago, and watches in horror as the angel’s eyes fill. 

Fuck, shit,  _ Satan _ he was an idiot. Gone and poured salt in the wound, hadn’t he?

He flounders for a moment before gently taking the mug from Aziraphale and pulling him into a hug instead. The angel stiffens in his arms but Crowley doesn’t relent, simply resting his cheek against Aziraphale’s temple and holding him tightly.

After a few minutes Aziraphale relaxes into the embrace, his hands finding a home at the small of Crowley’s back to hang on for dear life as the first sob escapes. He cries with a heady mix of fear and relief, loss and hope, and the demon he’s loved for millennia rocks him gently side to side, letting him shake himself to pieces only to gather them up again with infinite tenderness.

Aziraphale knows he will find no judgement here; he can be soft and sad and  _ scared _ , Crowley will think no less of him for it. They’re already pressed together from shoulder to hip but a small, selfish part of the angel wishes it were possible to crawl inside Crowley’s chest and make a home there, safe and warm right by his heart.

Wait.

He couldn’t  _ physically _ occupy Crowley’s body, but maybe. Just maybe.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I think— I have an idea.”

***

“Come and lay down with me, angel, you look exhausted.”

They’ve spent the last few hours going over Aziraphale’s plan and practising inhabiting one another’s corporations, but for now they wore their own weary faces again.

“You know I never took to sleeping, dear boy.”

Crowley’s glasses had come off some time ago, and there’s a hint of pleading in his soft yellow eyes when he lays a hand over Aziraphale’s.

“You’ll feel better for having a rest, even if you don’t actually sleep. Humour me?”

Aziraphale sighs but the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. He doesn’t have the heart to argue; his whole body feels heavy and he can’t bear to stray too far from Crowley’s side after all they’ve been through in the last few days.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

Clinging to the last threads of his self-restraint, Aziraphale lets Crowley withdraw his hand without complaint and follows him through the flat to a large, dark bedroom, at the centre of which is a huge bed neatly made with charcoal grey sheets and a thick duvet. It looks extraordinarily comfortable even from the doorway and Aziraphale is briefly overcome with the urge to faceplant into its centre and stay there until morning.

Shaking the thought aside with a huff of laughter at his own expense, he changes clothes with a snap— the blue and grey tartan flannel pajamas he summons are darker than his usual attire but soft and warm. 

Crowley has similarly changed into a black silk ensemble and slides beneath the sheets without any preamble, leaving plenty of space for Aziraphale to settle as he will on the other side of the bed, and the angel only hesitates a moment before lifting the covers to join him.

Laying on his back and staring at the ceiling, Aziraphale is hyper-aware of Crowley curled with his back to him an arm’s length away. He can scarcely think of anything else, consumed as he is with the fierce desire to curl himself protectively around the demon’s back, offering some semblance of shelter from whatever Heaven and Hell could throw at them.

“You think too loud.” Crowley mutters after a while, rolling over and tucking himself into Aziraphale’s side, head resting naturally where the angel’s heart pounds.

“Sorry, dear boy.” Aziraphale whispers back. He tentatively smoothes a hand up and down Crowley’s spine and the demon  _ melts _ , humming softly as some of the tension begins to melt from his wiry frame. He slings a leg across Aziraphale’s and burrows even closer, his cool skin just the right side of pleasant, and Aziraphale brushes a kiss into his hair.

“We’ll get through this, won’t we?”

The words are barely louder than a breath but Aziraphale bites his lip when they hang heavy in the air between them, guilt twisting in the pit of his stomach. Crowley needs to  _ rest _ .

Silence reigns for a few long moments. 

Crowley swallows, then answers in perhaps the gentlest voice Aziraphale has ever heard from him.

“Nothing short of total destruction would stop me finding my way back to you, angel, and even then I’d still try. I think your plan will work, though.”

Aziraphale could cry— he almost does. Swallowing hard, he turns onto his side to pull Crowley into a fierce hug and buries his face in the other being’s hair. Those thin fingers cling to the back of his pajama shirt as they breathe each other in.

“I love you too, Crowley, my dearest.” Aziraphale whispers thickly into ginger locks. “I’ll come back to you, I swear it.” He seals the promise with another kiss to the crown of Crowley’s head, then leans back to kiss his forehead.

Crowley lifts his head, those beautiful yellow eyes wide and damp, then curls one shaking hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck. Not pulling, not guiding, just a warm weight.

“Tell me this isn’t too fast, angel.” he manages, and Aziraphale’s heart breaks. 

He shakes his head. 

“Not too fast at all, dear.” 

Finally,  _ finally _ , Aziraphale takes the lead, leaning in to brush his lips against Crowley’s; barely-there at first, then pressing closer to kiss him properly with a shaky exhale. It’s so sweet and so  _ right _ , Aziraphale’s chest aches with the tenderness of it.

Surprisingly it’s Crowley that breaks away first, burying a yawn in Aziraphale’s shoulder and grumbling under his breath when the angel  _ laughs _ , bright and fond. He’s smiling, though, and he claims another brief kiss before curling back into Aziraphale’s warmth with a sigh.

And so, wrapped up in one another, they slowly succumb to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! You're welcome to come and yell at me and/or send a prompt my way on Tumblr at @enby-crowley :)


End file.
